Reluctant Queen: Tudor Historical Novel About Mary Rose Tudor, the Defiant Little Sister of King Henry VIII

by Geraldine Evans

  Mary, watching her brother, saw he was enjoying himself. At almost twenty-six, he still had much of the boy in him. But now the boy, for all his still-indulged love of play-acting, had come to enjoy playing the tyrant more. He kept Catherine on her knees before him, while he played the role of all wise, all-forgiving monarch. It was a role Mary recognised. Hadn’t she been on the receiving end of it while in France writing letters pleading for his forgiveness for her secret marriage? As on that occasion, her brother meant to extract as much as he could from the situation. Where now the elder brother from their nursery days? That Henry she had loved, adored even. But this one? This one she feared and feared for. Of what would he become capable as the flattery of courtiers encouraged his vanity and growing love of power? It saddened Mary to see how that power was beginning to corrupt him.

  While Henry still continued to indulge his play-pondering, his head on his hand as he surveyed his queen, Mary grabbed her sister’s hand and pulled her to the floor beside Catherine so the sister-queens could add their pleas to Catherine’s. What matter, thought Mary, if the entire court had to grovel on their knees before him? She pictured again the terror and grief of the boys’ mothers as they waited to learn what would be their sons’ fate. The picture lent her eloquence.

  ‘Come, brother,’ she pleaded earnestly. ‘I know how kind and forgiving your heart can be and how loving.’ Feverishly, Mary searched her memory for the words that had proved most useful when she had sought his forgiveness herself. ‘We know your power, but please, your Grace, show the world your wisdom so they can also appreciate your justice and mercy. They are but silly children, after all, as Queen Catherine said. For love of our long-dead mother, think of the mothers of these poor misguided wretches this day. News of the mercy of great King Henry will resound throughout the world. Come brother,’ Mary softened her voice and held her hand to her now-swollen belly, ‘Forgive your children and obtain their joyful thanks.’

  Mary held her breath as her brother’s mind turned over her words and those of his queen. She had been at pains to touch on all the things that would most appeal to him; she had extolled his wisdom, his justice and mercy, his power and how the news would be received abroad. She had also appealed to that streak of sentiment which had ever formed part of her brother’s character. Would it be enough?

  The entire court seemed to hold its breath. Then Henry, evidently believing he had extracted as much drama and praise as possible, told the hushed court that he was indeed pleased to spare the prisoners’ lives. He did so at a splendid public ceremony at Westminster Hall. Handcuffed and chained by the neck, the prisoners were paraded past this modern-day Solomon, as Henry sat, looking suitably wise. He listened to their cries for mercy and graciously inclining his head, ordered their release, though not before even the powerful and corpulent Wolsey bent the knee to his sovereign lord on their behalf.

  It seemed to Mary that summer as she awaited the birth of her second child that barely was one drama over than another must raise its head. The news that Cardinal Wolsey was sick unto death raced round the court. Mary begged Charles not to display too much glee at the news, at least in public. Fortunately, given her condition, he was at pains not to upset her and Mary heard few reports of her husband proclaiming what joy the death of Wolsey would give him. But it didn’t stop him dreaming, she knew; she often caught him in quiet moments, staring into space, a slight smile playing about his lips and needed few guesses as to its cause.

  Others were not so discreet and little knots of excited courtiers would form in corners as they speculated on who would replace the great Cardinal. But Wolsey, with the strong constitution of his peasant forefathers, made a surprising recovery from his brush with death and, to the chagrin of Charles and not a few others, was soon again at the head of affairs.

  It didn’t take long, as Charles furiously asserted, for Wolsey to set about the business of ruining him once more.

  Mary could only try to console him as his difficult position at court was again brought vividly home to him by the arrival of the ambassadors of the Emperor and the King of Spain for the formal signing of the defensive league against France which had been agreed the previous November.

  Mary, feeling sick and cumbersome, could take no part in these formalities. Henry and Wolsey had expended a fortune to make the league possible. They expected the whole court to join in welcoming and entertaining the foreign guests. A costly business, requiring expensive gifts and much finery. Mary wondered how Charles would manage to conceal his anger and put a cheerful face on the proceedings when he was one of those expected to sign the formal documents which would most likely sign away Mary’s dower income from France and with it any hope of avoiding an even more penurious future. It would be something else for Charles to hold against Wolsey. And not just Wolsey. Herself also, she feared. But Mary didn’t blame the Cardinal. In her heart, she knew who was behind the desire for war. Who else but Henry? Where, but on the field of battle, could he find the glory and drama his ever-growing vanity demanded?

  Her misgivings and worry about how her husband would comport himself, caused the pangs of labour to surprise her on the road. Mortified that this baby, so keen to enter the world, might force her to give birth at the side of the road, Mary clutched her belly and struggled on towards Hatfield in the neighbourhood of St Albans.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  After the previous, bitingly cold winter the weather turned insufferably hot. Mary, still heavily pregnant – for the pangs had been but a false alarm – felt the heat keenly. In the country she at least escaped the unhealthy stink that would hang over London, but it didn’t ease her worry for Charles, Catherine, Henry and the rest of the court.

  Her youth had been heavily influenced by Catherine’s charitable instincts and she felt a keen concern for the capital’s poorer citizens, who would find little respite in their windowless hovels. If the weather didn’t break soon, the sweltering heat would bring its unwelcome companion, disease, to town.

  And so it proved. Soon, inevitably, people fleeing the sickness that spread with such terrifying swiftness, brought news that had the servants hastily barring the doors from this enemy that could render a person who had been merry at dinner dead by suppertime. Restless, feeling powerless and sick unto death herself, Mary prayed that Charles had had the good sense to leave London, for this, it seemed, was a sickness that had no favourites. Bits of news filtered through to her in her bed-chamber where she had retired to await the birth of her child. As usual, the court had fled to the country at the first hint of disease, but with them they had brought that insidious companion, death. Many died along the road, the rich and powerful as well as the poor. Frantic, with worry for her husband and the rest of her family, Mary forced her bloated body to its knees. All she could do was pray and instruct her servants to leave food and drink by the roadside to succour any passing unfortunate victims.

  As the days and the heat wore relentlessly on, Mary learned from news shouted from beyond the barricades her household staff had erected against this insidious death, that Henry and most of the court had fled to the country as she had expected. Next, she learned that some of his Council had fallen ill, that pages that had slept in Henry’s bed-chamber had died. Well could she imagine her brother’s fear that this contagion should have dared to touch him so close. Henry, her big and magnificently built brother, had a mortal fear of illness and disease. He would, she knew, keep on the move from manor to manor, attended only by a few trusted servants.

  But where was Charles? Had Henry kept him with him? Or was he, even now, lying ill and abandoned at some roadside with none to aid him? Increasingly distressed as thought piled on horrifying thought, each more unbearable than the one before, Mary at last had news of her husband. He was safe and well, but feared to bring the sickness to her and the rest of the household. His message told her than London was as a dead city. The sick and dying lay in the streets, too feeble to drag themselves home, their cries for succour unheede
d.

  In her alarm, Mary was surprised to discover in her husband’s message a note of unwilling admiration for Wolsey, who had, it seemed, bravely remained behind in the capital to keep a guiding hand on the affairs of the nation.

  At last, Charles himself arrived. He had waited till he could be sure he and his companions had not caught the contagion, before he travelled by stages to Hatfield, keeping away from other wandering souls. Mary clung to him and when their first breathless relief was over, he told her the latest news.

  Wolsey’s household had not escaped. Many had already died, more looked likely to follow, including Wolsey himself, who had but recently risen from his sick-bed. Mary, just glad to have Charles safe, said nothing when she saw the thought that had stolen into his heart—let Wolsey not escape death this time.

  But, for the second time, Charles’s wish was not granted. Amazingly, if the limited news that filtered through to them was to be believed, Wolsey had survived no less than four onslaughts of the sickness in as many weeks. Even Charles had to admit that the Cardinal seemed to be truly under Divine protection. It didn’t make him love the man the more. How could it, thought Mary, when the Cardinal had seemingly not only the favour of an earthly king, but of the heavenly one also.

  The hot weather hadn’t abated. Instead, it grew even hotter. Mary, trying for respite from the heat and finding none, turned restlessly on her bed. She felt beads of sweat break out on her forehead. Fear made her tremble. Had she caught the sickness? Was she to die as so many had died?

  Terror caught and held her. She raised herself up in the big bed and called for Susan, her maid.

  ‘Is it the sickness?’ she asked when her maid arrived. ‘Keep Charles away from me, I beg you. I could not bear it if—’

  ‘Hush, now Madam,’ Susan soothed her. ‘Tis surely only that your time is come. Calm yourself.’

  The pain that followed Susan’s words confirmed her maid’s diagnosis. Another pang followed the first, then another. Soon, Mary was clutching her belly as waves of pain swept over her. It wasn’t long before the oppressive heat and the pains between them had her entire body drenched in sweat. She could find no relief and as the hours wore on, she clutched harder and harder at Susan’s hand while the midwives exhorted her to push.

  The room grew hotter. It was airless in the closed chamber and Mary struggled to find sufficient air to give her the strength to deliver her burden. She called for Charles, but he didn’t come. Finally, Susan admitted that he had yet to return from some business he had gone out to attend to that morning.

  She became a little delirious, imagined she was Catherine and fear invaded her soul at the thought of all the lost babies as she cried out, ‘How many more times, oh God? Let this one live, I beg you.’

  Vaguely, she heard a familiar voice reassure her that all was well and that her ordeal would soon be over, felt a gentle hand wipe a cooling cloth over the sweat from her brow. The calm voice and cool water restored her and when the midwives exhorted her once more to push, she did so as though she were truly the unfortunate Catherine desperate to produce the son she longed for. A pewling, new-born cry echoed round the chamber. Exhausted, Mary lay back.

  Susan brought the red and angry bundle to her. ‘You have a daughter, Madam. A beautiful daughter. Lusty, too, from the sound of her.’

  Relieved that her ordeal was over, Mary gazed down at the child in her arms. She felt a momentary fear that Charles would be angry with her that she hadn’t given Henry another nephew to dote on. Was that how Catherine felt each time she failed? Poor lady, how hard she had struggled to do her duty by Henry. Time after time she had been through this ordeal, with only one daughter to show for all her agonies.

  Mary sighed and asked what day it was. She felt she had been labouring for several and had lost all track of the passing hours.

  ‘It is St Francis’ Day’ Susan told her. ‘An auspicious day to be born.’

  Mary nodded and gazed down at her red-faced daughter. In vain, she searched for any likeness to herself or Charles. Instead, in the pursed-up little mouth and pugnacious jut of the baby’s jaw, Mary saw only her brother, Henry. Strange that a child so new to the world should show so much personality. A thought entered her head, one that Mary felt would appease Charles should he feel disappointed that she had given him a daughter. ‘I think I fancy the name Frances for the little maid.’ Perhaps the auspices of the saint’s day naming would encourage the child’s namesake, King Francis, to be kind to her mother and not steal away all her dower income if war came between England and France.

  She remembered Francis’ merry heart. It could be kind, too. He had helped her and Charles in their great trouble. She recalled some of the French king’s other behaviour too, behaviour that had not been so kind, but time and the rosy gaze of new motherhood softened this view as the distance in time rendered memory hazy.

  She nodded, her mind made up. ‘The child is to be named Frances. It is a goodly name. Who knows but that it may bring some favour to her in the future.’ And to her parents, she added softly to herself. How pleased Charles would be if this gesture should soften Francis’ heart towards them.

  Susan took the child from her. ‘Let us get you presentable for when your lord returns. You would look your best for him. After that, you must rest and regain your strength.’

  Mary nodded sleepily, content to let her maids have the ordering of her. She now had two fine children. They were a hard, painful struggle to bring into the world, but they surely brought their own reward.

  Charles returned, dismayed and apologetic that he had been absent while she laboured. Mary brushed his apologies aside as he kissed her and asked anxiously how she did. After her reassurances, she watched the wonder on her husband’s face as he cradled his little daughter who had been hastily fetched from her crib. Mary thanked God that she had somehow found the courage to defy her brother and marry against his wishes. Who knew, otherwise, to whom he might have married her and what might have become of her? She had failed to give King Louis a son, for all his fumblings. He had been an old man and had hope rather than great expectation of a son and heir from her. A younger man might not have been so forgiving of such failure. And as Charles kissed her and bid her sleep, into her mind came a vision of Henry, on his face a scowl, as he learned that his wife had once again failed in her duty. How cruel life could be.

  As autumn brought cooler weather, the sickness that had so desolated the country at last departed. Gradually, the courtiers crept back to the city. Cardinal Wolsey, for once, as Charles had it, following the dictates of the God represented by his Cardinal’s hat, took himself off on a pilgrimage to Walsingham to give thanks for his life. Mary, too, felt cause to be grateful that autumn. She had for the second time come safely through the ordeal of childbed and her new daughter thrived and gave suck lustily. The plague had passed harmlessly over the house. And last, but not least, Charles had been very loving towards her since the birth. He was pleased with her fruitfulness and hoped for many more fine, royal children. Mary, too, her ordeal behind her and mercifully fading from memory, shared his hope.

  She had been blessed. Her loved ones had been mercifully spared. And as she visited the nursery and gathered her children in her arms, she felt that life was good. Now, if only Charles could continue to remain content in the country with her and the children, she would ask nothing more of life.

  Strange it was, thought Mary, that now she asked nothing of the fates they should shower her with gifts, though they hadn’t all dropped into her lap. It had taken interminable discussions with Cardinal Wolsey before it was at last conceded that if Henry’s desire for war with France stopped the arrival of Mary’s dower income, they wouldn’t be pursued for the debts they owed to the crown. Even Henry couldn’t extract that which was no longer there.

  Added to this was Henry’s repeated failure to push on with plans for war with France. And after Pope Leo had exhibited one of his occasional bursts of Papal piety, Henry had had to ab
andon his dreams of glory in France. For the Pope desired a crusade against Islam and had called for all Christian monarchs to be at peace with one another so as to present a united front against the infidel. Wolsey persuaded the various monarchs to join in a multi-national defensive league, whereby if one member country was invaded the other members would be obliged to declare war on the aggressor.

  This put a curb on Henry. He had hoped to make use of the league, had striven for months to get his sluggish allies to move against the French in Italy. To this end, he had showered Emperor Maximilian with money to encourage him. Maximilian, however, had more interest in Henry’s money than his empire-building ambitions. And after extracting as much money from the Tudor coffers as he could squeeze, solemnly swearing his loyalty to Henry’s cause on the four Gospels, he promptly made terms with King Francis, managing to get himself betrothed to a rich French bride for good measure.

  Henry’s many plans against France had all fallen through one after the other. Perhaps the Pope’s overture came as a welcome relief to him; he could, for the moment, give over his sabre-rattling with unreliable allies. A five-year truce was called and Francis promised that the dowry of his Belle- Mère would be paid. Mary and Charles relaxed a little, sure in the knowledge that Henry and Wolsey could be relied upon to swiftly exact fulfilment of this promise.

  Easter found Henry still in the country, at Abingdon. He invited them to spend the holy season with him there. Charles, keen to clear his name of the accusation that he had colluded with the French, spent much time with Wolsey’s secretary indignantly denying the charges. But as all knew of their money troubles and the need of French friendship that these troubles brought them, his denials weren’t as readily believed as he had hoped.